One Last One
by AmethystWren
Summary: One-shot. As she lies in the forest, alone and dying, she wishes she had just one friend left. Just someone to hold her hand, to promise impossible things, to perhaps even rush her to Avalon, just as Merlin is rushing Arthur to the Lake. Yet there is one friend left, it's just a case of her getting to Morgana in time. *Spoilers for The Diamond of the Day*


**Watching Morgana's death was probably hardest for me, out of everyone who died last episode (though I think they _all_ made me tear up, and by Arthur's I was bawling my eyes out!) because she was so alone. Arthur had Merlin with him, to hold him and to try and save him. Gwaine had Percival. Mordred's body was recovered and buried by Morgana. Yet, when _she_ died, she literally had no-one. And I hardly thought that was fair.**

**So, in an attempt to remedy that, I give you a short one-shot. Maybe it'll help what happened to Morgana sit better in your mind. Goodness knows it did me, if only a little.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Merlin, or anyone you may recognise from the series. Credits go to their respective owners.**

* * *

Emrys looks down at her, bearing an expression that shows little remorse, perhaps even none at all. She wants to tell him that his words are false, that she isn't the monster he seems to believe she is. She wants what is right for the people with magic; surely he, of all people, can see that?

But no. As he walks around her, paying her no heed- not even a glance- to help his king to his feet, Morgana can't help but envy her brother. Perhaps she went about her goals the wrong way. Because now, she has no-one to hold her hand as she slips away.

She even offered Arthur that luxury. She hadn't been joking; she _would_ sit with him as he died, ensure that he wasn't forced to endure it alone. It might've been said with a sneer, but she meant the best. Yet he's more than willing to let Emrys help him hobble away from her, leave her lying alone on the forest floor.

Emrys is to Arthur what Mordred was to her, she thinks. Although her attitude towards the young druid boy was far more motherly than Merlin's to Arthur. Ever since she'd first met him, first agreed she'd shelter him from her father's eyes, she felt a connection with him. When he stabbed her in the back- literally- it had hurt like crazy. Not because she was physically dying, but because it was _he_ who had delivered the blow. That dull, throbbing ache had lasted until he'd returned to her a few weeks ago.

Or Agravaine, perhaps. He'd _died_ for her. Now she thought about it, a lot of men had died for her, for her ideas. And now she'd gone and lost, and made their sacrifice pointless.

Oh, the _anger_. It bubbles up inside her, with no way to escape because she can't get up. Not if she wishes to keep her insides inside her. Despite this idea, her strength is ebbing away like the tides of the sea. She knows that, unlike the sea, it won't come rushing back in again at high tide. It will go and it will stay away forever. And she will die. Alone. Because all of her friend's have been taken from her already.

Her eyelids start to feel heavy, like they do when she's been up all night planning strategy, and knows full well that she can't sleep during the day. Contrary to popular belief, she _is_ a good leader. She has to be to man an army of that size. She has supporters, because her ideas are _right_. She has enemies because her methods were wrong.

But to suck up to Arthur had seemed pointless after what she did to their father. That, and she didn't believe she could tolerate it. There's more of Uther in that boy than he cares to realise, and she resents it. Looking at the new king is just like looking at the old one.

The weight of her eyelids is suddenly overbearing, and she decides to give in, to close them for _just_ a moment. Part of her knows she won't open them again, but she blanks that bit out, instead focusing her thoughts on the sound of the wind rustling the leaves above.

* * *

Emrys told her to fly away, to stop fighting. And as much as she hates to leave Black-haired Friend alone, Aithusa knows that Boy with Blue Eyes will protect her. He usually does. Except for that time when he stabbed her, but the white dragon is fairly sure he is _very_ sorry for that now. He seems quite friendly. During dinner, he slips her pieces of meat from the table in secret. That makes him a good person in her book. Not that she _has_ a book, but that's beside the point.

Aithusa finds a wonderful little cave to sit in and wait for the battle to end. It will, no doubt, be just like the others. When it is over, Black-haired Friend will call her name, and she'll hear it without her acute dragon hearing. And then she will fly to meet her, and it will be just like old times. Aithusa likes old times.

She's curled up at the back of the cave, playing with a small rock she found, when she feels it; a shuddering, horrible pain that seems to ricochet through her bones. And then the _screaming_ starts, and it sounds like someone's dying. The scream sounds familiar, and she traces it back to Boy with Blue Eyes. Aithusa bows her head in respect as this final scream fades, and the shiver in her bones is replaced by nothing more than a cold emptiness.

After a minute of respectful silence, of stillness, Aithusa goes back to batting the rock between her front paws, trying her best to remember Boy with Blue Eyes for the wonder he was, not for the cold, lifeless _thing _she knows he must look like now.

The sun rises, and still Black-haired Friend has failed to call. Aithusa eyes the discarded rock in the corner and contemplates playing with it again. There's nothing much else to do in this cave.

When night falls again, Aithusa has come down the situation fitting one of two conclusions 1) This is some long-winded battle, or 2) Black-haired Friend has died. The latter, Aithusa casts off. If Boy with Blue Eyes' death created such a scream, such a magical uproar that it made her bones ache, then Black-haired Friend's will cause twice the pain, if not more. The high priestess, after all, has more magic than the druid boy. Aithusa _thinks_. She may or may not be wrong.

Sunrise the next day, and Aithusa is growing bored of this cave. To Avalon with what Emrys said; she's going back to that battlefield, no matter what. Kilgharrah would no doubt scold her, but he's _old_. She could out-fly him any day. She _thinks_.

Aithusa swoops low over the battlefield. Black cloaks and red cloaks, and so many bloodied corpses, but none she recognises acutely. Nowhere can she find the mop of hair indicating Boy with Blue Eyes, nor can she fine the black dress and messy raven hair of Black-haired Friend.

Well, then, why hasn't she been called yet? This is all looking mighty confusing.

The white dragon decides to fly above the forest. She needs to practice working these wings, after having them compressed for most her life. Flying is her favourite thing, besides roast boar. Roast boar is her other favourite.

It is whilst flying over the forest, nearing the Lake of Avalon, that she feels that horrible, _horrible_ pain again. Her wings don't seem like they want to keep her in the air any more, and she's plummeting towards the ground far faster than she would like.

Closing her eyes as she collides with the canopy, Aithusa skids to a halt. Her white scales are caked in mud and leaf debris, and she makes a silent vow to clean that up the first chance she gets. Maybe even in the Lake of Avalon, just to see Kilgharrah's face. She can hear his voice now "_Aithusa! We do not bathe in the Lake of Avalon!"_ The thought makes her grin.

Another shudder in her bones, though this one is more like a wave than a scream, warns the world that someone dear has been lost. It wipes the smile from her face completely. _Please don't be someone I like._

Aithusa stumbles through the forest, in the direction that the wave seemed to reverberate from. _Not again_ she thinks, heading towards Black-haired Friend's lifeless form. _What in Albion would she do without me? This must be the... Third time? Yes, third time._

As she approaches Black-haired Friend, the white dragon can't help but notice that something feels very, very wrong. Stopping beside her, Aithusa nudges her head against Black-haired Friend's shoulder.

_Dead. _She decides firmly. _What do I normally do when this happens?_

She tries 'breathing life' (a practice which involves taking energy from the world around and trying to restore it in Black-haired Friend) over her friend, but it doesn't work. Neither do any of the other magical spells that Aithusa has picked up over time from Black-haired Friend, from Kilgharrah, from Boy with Blue Eyes.

Stumped, Aithusa resorts to resting her head on Black-haired Friend's chest and curling her body around hers. She can't exactly dig a grave, not with her claws; how undignified for the last female dragon! And to set fire to her friend is almost unthinkable. That's what _Emrys_ does to _his_ friends.

She doesn't much like Emrys any more.


End file.
